Lies Agreed Upon
by songsmith
Summary: Four years after the death of Caspian IX, Miraz plots to consolidate his power over those who oppose him as a tyrant. The Narnians takes sides in this struggle, remembering how another tyrant claimed Narnia for a hundred years. "History is a set of lies agreed upon." - Napoleon
1. Telmarine

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_

Glozelle hears Lord Miraz long before he reaches the library door. The thick oak panels muffle the sound enough to blur the words, but it's clear some poor fellow is getting the rough edge of the Lord Protector's tongue. Just as he reaches for the handle, the door swings open and a red-faced messenger barrels out, so intent on his feet that he bumps into Glozelle and so intent on escape that he hurries on with barely a muttered apology. Glozelle shakes his head and goes in, confident Miraz is only blowing smoke. The Lord Protector's roars are nothing to fear; his quiet is what's deadly.

As expected, Miraz is pacing the window bay, scowling at a piece of paper. He doesn't look up when Glozelle enters. The soldier makes his bow anyway, murmuring, "My lord."

"He is threatening to bring suit against me," Miraz says, still without looking up. "Suit! AS though we were common merchants squabbling over contracts." Glozelle says nothing, only waits for the storm to blow over. "The audacity of the man. He thinks because his sister was queen, he should be king."

"Surely his ambitions do not run so high." Glozelle is proud of how steady his voice is. The thought of Lord Erimon as kings is sharply shocking, like the first splash of icy wash-water on a winter's morning, but surely it is Miraz's anger speaking and not any true reflection of the lord's ambitions. There are too many heirs before him. Glozelle is no student of genealogy, but he can think of at least four off-hand: Caspian, Miraz, and the two Gallarid brothers, descended of Caspian VIII's daughter.

"Do they not? Read that," Miraz orders, thrusting the paper at Glozelle.

He takes it, glad to find a scribe's clear hand gracing the page. Many of the nobles have hands nearly indecipherable even for men of more letters than Glozelle. He wrinkles his brow over the words, laboring through the twisted phrases. "'…To be guided by us in his royal duties and governance,'" he reads out carefully. "He wishes control of Caspian's education?"

"He wishes control of Caspian," Miraz snaps. "'Guided by us,' indeed. He's already speaking like royalty."

Glozelle blinks and peruses the letter again. It is a royal plural. Which, he supposes, constitutes an insult to Miraz as well as simple arrogance. He shakes his head. Give him the simple insults of a tavern brawl any day over the subtle poisons of the court. He doesn't understand why they make an art of veiled insults when everyone sees through the veils anyway.

Miraz's angry pacing ends with an almost boneless drop into one of the heavy wingchairs. He drums his fingers on the armrest and stares out the window, brooding. "Erimon cannot be allowed control of the boy," he says at length. "We would be paying tribute to Archenland inside the year if he get his hooks into Caspian."

Glozelle drifts closer. "What will you do."

"Defeat this suit of his." He sits silent for a moment, then suddenly kicks the footstool violently. "Damn my brother! If had had left a proper will-!"

"He did not know he would have a child," Glozelle points out. Caspian IX had died with the queen in her first month, uncertain herself of the pregnancy and unwilling to tell anyone given previous disappointments. Eight months later, there was a healthy prince to complicate a succession Caspian had given no thought to.

By law and custom, a man's brother was responsible for his widow and children. In any other house, the baby Caspian would have lived in Miraz's household as a foster-son, and be given a son's share of the estate when he married. Whether he would be made heir to the house portion would depend on his aptitude, and no one would have claimed he'd been cheated of his inheritance had the family seat passed to Miraz's own son. But with a throne involved, the matter was more delicate, especially with better than two hundred fifty years of tradition behind it. The direct line from Caspian the Conqueror had only been side-tracked once, in the very early years, when Caspian III had died in the plague of 1964 and his younger brother, Tirian, had held the throne. But Tirian had no sons, and had passed the throne to his nephew, restoring the line. Miraz would be expected to do the same.

"All the more reason to have his affairs in order," says Miraz. "But my brother never did give thought to the future. A flaw I do not mean to duplicate."

"My lord?"

Miraz's mouth quirks in a secret smile. "You should read more history, general. It is full of useful lessons. Even for warfare."

"I know little of history, my lord," Glozelle apologizes.

"And I have no time to correct your education," Miraz returns briskly. "Lord Scythley will be here presently." Getting up, he pulls a thick volume from the shelf and thrusts it at Glozelle, so that the general is forced to take it before it drops. Then he crosses to the door, leaning out to order wine brought.

Glozelle examines the tome in his hands. It is old, the binding too lumpy for a title, but well-maintained. None of the leather flakes off on his fingers when he opens the cover to examine the fly-leaf. Thankfully, the scribe who copied it out had a good, clear hand; the words are not difficult: _The Reigne of Queen Jaddis the Swan White, Being an Examination of Divers Correspondance, Annals, and Diarys._ He opens the book at random and reads a few lines, wincing at the dry tone all scholars seem to cultivate, as if it were a crime to show interest in their life's work. Glozelle much prefers generals turned writers. Even when they aren't writing about war, as with Pilinian and his _Historie Geographica_, they have a plainer, more practical style. He closes the book gently, resigned to several long evenings puzzling his way through it. Miraz does not make casual suggestions; he _will_ ask about it later.

The servant delivering the wine only just manages to beat Scythley there. He is still arranging cups on the table when the lord strolls in through the open door without announcement. Miraz doesn't appear surprised by this, but goes to greet him with an embrace and the kiss of peace. "Please, sit, take wine with me," Miraz urges, while the serving boy makes a discreet escape.

Scythley settles himself at the table, whereupon Miraz suddenly seems to remember Glozelle's presence. "General, forgive me. You had a message for me?"

"Nothing that will not wait, my lord," he replies, as he is expected to. Whatever business he has should not be aired before a guest, particularly one who opposes Miraz as often as Scythley. Truthfully, Glozelle does not relish the notion of discussing the Northern border with Miraz when his temper is already chancy.

"Attend me this evening," Miraz suggests, taking a chair opposite Scythley.

"Yes, my lord," Glozelle murmurs, though neither man now is paying him the slightest attention. He makes his bows to the two lords, taking his leave with as much grace as he can muster. As he closes the door, he hears Miraz saying, "It is well past time, Lord Scythley, that I thought of taking a bride." Whatever Scythley says in return is lost behind the thick panels, but it hardly matters to Glozelle except as a curiosity. Though both lords share a passion for seeing Telmar change with the times, as Miraz puts it, they are as often at loggerheads over issues of isolation and trade.

The intricacies of noble marriage arrangements being well beyond him, Glozelle puts it out of his mind. Instead he considers the message from the north which had prompted him to seek out Miraz in the first place. The brutal giants of the northlands have been restless of late, and their forays into human lands both bolder and bloodier. Most recently they have carried off and entire flock of sheep, and the shepherds with it.

Giants are brutal but fundamentally cowards, nothing more than beasts in grotesque parodies of human form. A few decisive battles send them scurrying back to their rocky wastes, until the memory fades from their tiny brains and they require another reminder. But Lord Armas cannot bring them to battle so long as they raid in secrecy; he must have enough eyes to watch the border. Glozelle will send such forces as he can without the Lord Protector's authorization. It won't be much, but even a few men may turn the tide of battle, and he is confident they will be put to good use. Lord Armas is a capable commander and the Passarids have ever been the shield of the north.

A few squadrons for now, and if Miraz is in a better humor this evening - if his negotiations with Scythley go well - perhaps Glozelle will be able to lead a larger force north under royal authority. That should buy another decade or so of peace in the north, and leave the army free to concentrate on the greater threat south, as well as what Glozelle considers its true purpose: imposing peace on feuding nobles.

Cheered by this thought and the pleasure of having a clear plan in mind, Glozelle goes in search of a scribe to take down his orders. Once they are written and dispatched, he should still have a spare hour or two before his interview with Miraz to devote to the book tucked under his arm.

~.~

_Youngleaf, 903: Second Year of the Reign of Queen Jadis_

Paukhep of the Grey clan Tauvil, junior constable of Her Majesty's lawkeepers, paused on the road to knock the thick rim of mud from her boots for the fifth time since the squad had set out from the castle. It wasn't exactly spring, and not quite cold enough for winter, which meant the ground was a slushy mess and the roads muddy ones. To make matters worse, today was precisely the sort of grey, damp day that made finishing reports attractive if only because it could be done indoors.

But staying inside wasn't an option today. Word had come from the Groscard stead that another home had been vandalized. It was the sixth case in the past fortnight, and though Paukhep's squad had only handled two of the others, everyone was sick with anger at the unknown culprits. There was too much ill-will toward the Colorless clans for anyone to stand out as a suspect, and the lawkeepers grew steadily more frustrated with each attack.

By the time Paukhep caught up to the others, Nikothoe had the distraught family outside their small croft, calming them. She waved Paukhep and Ostgerg through the door without taking her eyes from the weeping mother. Ostgerg ducked inside at once, but Paukhep paused to listen for a moment.

"…tried so hard," the woman sobbed. "We work the strips no one wants, we haven't pushed forward. All we wanted was a little space for the children."

Same story, different faces. The clans of the interior and the members of the old court despised them beyond all reason. The Queen tried, but such attitudes were difficult to change. Paukhep sighed quietly, ducking inside to join her partner. Just inside, she paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and promptly wished they hadn't.

The place was a shambles. Every stick of furniture had been overturned and shattered, every bowl, jar, and bottle knocked from the shelves, every bit of fabric shredded. The tumble of ruined goods added up to more mess than such a meager set of possessions had any right to make. The worst thing was the small huddle of charred clan charms still smoking dully in a corner.

"Lucky those didn't catch the whole house," Ostgerg said, seeing where Paukhep was looking.

"Yeah," she echoed dully. "Lucky." She plucked a shard of pottery from the wreckage at her feet, turning it over in her fingers. Bright painted patterns covered one side; the family was from the northlands where they decorated almost everything against the long dark. This was finer work than most, and they didn't seem to have money; someone in the family had talent.

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Paukhep said, letting the shard fall back to the floor. "No one's going to admit seeing anything. So they have a houseful of ruins and we can't even bring the culprits to justice for them. A fine welcome to Narnia this is."

"Maybe not," Ostgerg said. "Look at this." Drawn by the interest in his voice - usually nothing but a new book excited him - Paukhep drifted over to look at his discovery. There, in the flour spilling from a smashed jar, was one clear, beautiful footprint. She grinned and crouched to examine it.

"Woodsman," Ostgerg said. "The shape's distinctive."

Paukhep nodded. "Large and heavy," she added, measuring the print with her hand, careful not to disturb the powder. Sitting back on her heels, she looked up at her partner. "Not much to go on; there must be dozens nearby. And none of them like us."

"It's more than we've had in the last two." Ostgerg gazed around the wreckage, his face grim. "Nothing else here."

"No." Paukhep stood. "Let's see if Nikothoe's calmed the family down any."

But when they emerged from the house, Commander Greck pulled them aside before they even saw Nikothoe. "Report," he ordered, looking grimmer than usual.

"One footprint," Ostgerg said. "Tall, heavy woodsman."

"All of them, in other words." Greck sounded angry, but then he always did. The rash of incidents directed at the Colorless clans wasn't helping anyone's mood.

"There's nothing else," Paukhep said. "The family can go in." She hesitated. It wasn't strictly their job, but... "Sir, the clan charms-"

"You two may escort the stead's wise-woman here," Greck said. "The queen would prefer to keep this from outright warfare, and all we need now is toughs attacking a wise-woman."

"Yes, sir. Thank you," she added, before Ostgerg could nudge her. He'd decided her manners needed work, and her side was sort for him hints.

Normally, a wise-woman's dwelling would be at the center of the stead, but in these mixed settlements, anyone who might become a focus for the prevailing air of suspicion had prudently removed to the fringes or even the isolation of the forest edge. The walk, therefore, was a fair bit longer than it might have been, leaving plenty of time to brood.

Ostgerg had little patience with brooding in general. "Stop that. They'll be fine."

"There was nothing left in there," Paukhep growled. "Not even a scrap of food. How is it going to be fine when they're starving?"

"They won't starve; stop exaggerating. The queen will see to it they're fed out of the palace until they're back on their feet. And their neighbors will help replace what was lost."

"The neighbors hardly have anything to spare, either," she pointed out. "And how long before they're attacked too? It's not fair." To Paukhep, _not fair_ was the worst kind of complaint. The thousand nagging inequities of life had driven her to turn lawkeeper; the more brutal grievances of life in the in the Colorless clans had driven her to the Queen in the North, and eventually brought her here, in that queen's service.

Ostgerg fancied himself a philosopher, and often argued fairness with her, driving her to distraction. But today he only grunted and forbore to comment further. Whether he agreed or just sensed her mood, she was grateful. Just now, hearing 'fairness depends on our perception' or even worse, 'life is meant to be unfair' would have snapped her fraying temper. And she tried not to lose her temper on duty, she really did. It got in the way of the job.

"She lives here," she said instead, turning off the path for a little cote set among the brush at the forest's edge. Ostgerg knew that as well as she did, of course, and if he hadn't the sigil-post set by the door would have told him, but apparently his unaccustomed taciturnity extended to not pointing out inanity. Paukhep led the way to the door, trying to shake off her black mood. It didn't work very well, but she was able to muster a polite smile when the wise-woman opened the door.

She was a little woman, stooped and almost curled in on herself, her only memorable feature a prominent hooked nose like a beak. But her eyes were lively and mirthful as she peered up at them. "And what brings a pair of lawkeepers to the door of an honest woman?" she asked.

Paukhep found a less stilted smile for her at the teasing. "We're your escort, Mother Aksiniya," she said. "The Vaunos family's clan charms were destroyed-"

"More troubles," the wise-woman said, shaking her head. "More anger. The same again? Everything smashed up?"

"I fear so," Ostgerg said, and Aksiniya shook her head again, sadly.

"Will you be able to stop them?" The two lawkeepers exchanged dubious glances. Aksiniya sighed. "I see. Wait a moment whilst I get my things, and then we'll see what we can do for the Vaunos family."

The walk back seemed even longer, constantly alert for any trouble. The stead was silent, eerily so for an early afternoon, but Paukhep felt the prickle of watching eyes on her skin. It was almost an anticlimax to bring Aksiniya safely to the Vaunos door, where Commander Greck waited with Nikothoe and her partner, Felik. The wise-woman scarcely gave them a nod before ducking into the croft, leaving the lawkeepers cooling their heels outside.

"Anything useful from the neighbors?" Ostgerg asked, not sounding especially hopeful.

"As usual," Felik replied. "I think-"

"What's got into Ruzai?" Paukhep interrupted, staring past Nikothoe's shoulder at the youngster racing toward them. Her squad-mates turned to look, and Greck reached out to steady the boy when he skidded to a halt in front of them.

"Easy, there. What's the rush?"

Bent double and gasping, it was a moment before Ruzai could speak. "Need - Niko," he gasped out. "At Pinestead."

"Another vandalism?" Nikothoe asked wearily, but Ruzai shook his head.

"No'm." He sucked in a great breath and managed to straighten a little, looking up at her gravely. "It's your son."

~.~

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_

"Should I congratulate the happy bridegroom?"

"You heard," Miraz says. Glozelle tips his head just slightly. "It went well, but there is much to be done before any contract can be made. I am not yet certain the lady and I will suit, to begin."

"Lady Prunaprismia is counted very beautiful, I believe," Glozelle says.

"She is. But there is more to choosing a wife than beauty."

What other considerations there might be, Glozelle does not know. At least, none that could be satisfied by meeting the lady herself. Nobles marry for wealth, for alliance, or for beauty, when they cannot get all three at once. Certainly Caspian had chosen his queen for her looks. He says none of this to Miraz, of course. Instead, he asks if he may make his report.

"Of course, General, of course. What news?"

"The northern giants are restive, my lord." He lays out the situation, emphasizing the boldness of the attacks and their scale - not a head or three of livestock, but entire herds.

Miraz listens gravely, nodding now and again but saying nothing. When Glozelle winds down, he says, "You have already dispatched forces?"

"Two squadrons," Glozelle replies, "which is all I can spare without a muster." He waits, expecting this to be mere formality, for the order to call up the levies owed from the crown estates.

But Miraz shakes his head. "No," he says. "Armas will have to manage with his own levies; we cannot spare the muster now."

"But Lord Miraz," Glozelle objects. It is neither planting nor harvest; there is no reason the royal levies could not be called. "The chaos in the north-"

"General," the lord breaks in, "I understand your frustration. I, too, wish it were possible. But there are other factors to consider."

Glozelle frowns. New Telmar is an isolated and protected land, with few things to threaten it. The west is bordered by deep forests, nothing like the trammeled and managed stands in the heartland that provide firewood and game. The only ones who will venture even a little ways under its branches are the families who live beside it, like the Alcedins at Beaversdam, in whom familiarity has bred complacency if not exactly contempt. The western families tend to be loners perforce, avoided lest the madness that drives them into the woods rub off.

Other patches of that wildness lie in the east: not as thick, not as terrifying to sensible men, but sufficient to discourage casual entry. Only the river road that leads to their lone port is counted safe passage. But there is nothing in the east but the sea, and no one want to venture to the sea. They have the port for trade and communication, which is sufficient.

North and south are the problems. North, the giants and the occasionally other, stranger creatures that attach in the night. South, Archenland. Their nearest neighbor sits lurking on their border, eyeing them up for a tasty snack. Thinly-disguised 'bandits' harass the southern villages every autumn, and the boundary markers mysteriously shift themselves a pace or two between surveys, the Archen villages spilling a little further down the mountainsides every year. Every few generations there is either a war or a royal marriage as Archenland tries to get its hooks into the country.

This, though, ought to have been one of the quieter generations. Nobles intermarried too, and many a daughter - or even an inconvenient younger son - had been sent to a wedding across the border, so the queen had Archen blood by way of her grandmother and had been friendly towards them before her death, a position her brother Erimon continues. If King Nain has granddaughters before Caspian is much older, there might yet be a royal match. But Miraz seems to be suggesting...

"Consider, General," Miraz says when his confusion stretches the silence to far. "Archenland has never been so close to their desires. If Lord Erimon gains control of Caspian, he will invite them in. And it would not be long before he found himself replaced by a regent of _their_ choosing. As for my nephew... Caspian might be allowed to live, but never to rule. And in his sons' generation they would cease any pretense at all, and we would Archenland whether we wished it or no.

"They will do anything to ensure this chance does not slip away, General. I must have sufficient forces _here_ to protect the border and the prince."

"I would never weaken the defense of this castle," Glozelle says, vaguely offended that Miraz should think so.

"It is not merely the castle, General." Miraz glances at the door, which is properly shut, and lowers his voice anyway, leaning in. "In the strictest confidence..." He waits for Glozelle to nod. "I fear the wrangling in the Council will spill into violence. If the question of guardianship is not resolved soon, it may be war."

Glozelle shivers involuntarily. The perennial feuds between nobles are bad enough; he can only imagine the havoc outright civil war would wreak on the land. "I have not heard of levies raised," he whispers, instinctively matching Miraz's tone, "but I will have a closer watch kept."

"Good." Miraz straightens. "You understand why I cannot raise the royal levy for the north?"

Reluctantly, he nods. "I do, my lord."

Miraz claps him on the shoulder, adding a brisk squeeze by way of comfort. "Armas will hold for us," he says. "It is ill to campaign in winter anyway. By spring this should all be well-resolved and we may send aid north."


	2. Narnian

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the tyrant Miraz's rule_

"This is a bad idea."

"Shut up, Sigulf." Grint knows it's a bad idea. Dealing with Telmarines is always a bad idea. Trouble is, ignoring them is a worse one. He trudges through the snow; thin for this time of year and barely knee-deep even on his legs. Ignoring Telmarines is impossible, if you want to live in peace. Or live at all. They are far too eager to kill anything and everything that doesn't suit them.

For a little while, things had looked better. The ninth Caspian hadn't inherited the bloodthirstiness of the name; he was content to enjoy the pleasures of kingship and leave everyone else alone. And when had Narnians asked more than to be left alone? But then he'd died, with a small son barely in the cradle, and his brother had taken up the reins. Miraz, who'd clearly gotten all the family ruthlessness. Miraz, who in four years had undone all the good Caspian's decade of neglect had done. Miraz, who pushed the Narnians deeper into their woods, where they have to live practically atop one another.

He can still hear the other two behind him, dodging the branches of an inconvenient fallen tree, but he's determined to ignore the wolf at least. Sigulf hasn't stopped complaining since Grint first raised the idea. From the number of dire prophecies he's made, anyone would think he was a centaur and not a Beast.

"It would be a bad idea any time, but you - you had to plan it for winter." The snow crunches beneath their feet, as if to punctuate the point.

Grint bristles, and growls back, "There's nothing wrong with winter. Anyway, they won't be expecting it - I told you all this already." Several times. At least one of them had shouted - it had become quite the argument, and ended with Grint storming off to meet some Telmarines while Sigulf tagged behind like his own personal stormcrow and Rootminer followed them both to play peacemaker.

"There's nothing good in the world ever came to Narnia in winter," Sigulf persists. "Bloody curse on the land, it is."

"Now that's just not so," Rootminer puts in, puffing a little from trying to keep up with the wolf and the dwarf's faster pace. "The Four came to us in winter."

"The Four _ended _the Winter," Sigulf growls, "and then they abandoned us to the westerners' mercy, so I don't think there's much to be said about that."

"They didn't abandon us," Rootminer begins, and Grint hastens to intervene before it becomes a debate.

"There's no harm in talking to Telmarines," he says, "even in winter."

"Until they throw you in prison, or parade you about as a freak of nature," Sigulf growls. "Or let's not forget killing you, and burning the woods you came from."

Grint winces, turning his face away so they can't see, but aware that Sigulf at least will smell it on him. "And they won't do that in spring?"

Sigulf snorts. "Course they will. More bloodthirsty than the White Witch, Telmarines."

"There was a time when Narnians of good will found allies even among the supporters of the Witch," Rootminer says.

"You mean collaborators." Grint frowns, not liking the comparison. Black Dwarfs have enough to live down as it is. He doesn't suppose the badger meant the remark about the Witch as a _personal_ jab, but still. He begins to rethink this mission.

"No," Rootminer says, "Simply those who found common cause from time to time, even between such opposing forces."

"But those were Narnians," Sigulf objects. "They can be decent without the Witch's influence — look at the minotaurs. Look at us!"

"Humans have shared these lands peacefully before," Grint points out.

"Narnian humans," Sigulf says. "But there's none of them left, now is there? The White Witch killed them, and the Four abandoned us. What have humans brought since but death and misery?"

"They're not all bad," Grint insists. "It's not like this hasn't been done before, you know."

"One lord, here and there, graciously deigning not to exterminate us for a year or so, hardly makes them decent. Did you forget they always break their word the moment it's convenient?"

"That's why it can't be just one lord," says Grint. "If it's in writing, with their king's word behind it, the lords won't be able to break it any time they please." Not that he imagines it will be unbreakable. Telmarine kings have no more honor than their lords. It just has to be _harder_ - hard enough to give them a breathing space, a generation or two to rebuild... and perhaps, if fortune is with them, to persuade some of the common people that Narnians are neither their enemies nor their nightmares come alive.

"Oh, even better," Sigulf growls. "You're planning to negotiate a truce with a tyrant!"

"No," Grint replies, "with the ones that hate him."

"I still say it's madness."

"Perhaps," the badger breaks in, "you both ought to listen to a little history."

~.~

_Youngleaf, 903: Second year of the Long Winter_

The Trees carried the news. To them, it was mildly shocking, but no more; they knew the unrooted valued their young, but could not truly fathom it. A tree, talking or not, spread its seeds where fortune took them, and any sapling which took root near its parent competed just as fiercely for sun, water, and food as a stranger would. Talking Trees counted all dumb trees as children and all other talking ones as siblings, if they had to use the rootless terms at all.

Among those rootless, though, the news that a harpy fledge had been badly beaten and left for dead spread ripples of horror and shock wherever it passed. It didn't matter that the child in question was a harpy, nor that his parents were in service to the usurper Jadis; you didn't _do_ that!

"I'm not saying I wouldn't give his _parents_ what-for, if I caught them," Brond said over beer in Hekaios's hole that afternoon. Hekaios had opened the cask, which he'd been hoarding as last year's harvest had been poor and this year's looked to be the same, on the theory that they all needed a little comfort after news like that. It was good beer; several friends had decided he was right about the comfort and his little hole was cozily crowded with them, and truly warm for the first time all year.

Brond continued, his red beard wagging wildly, "They don't belong here to start with, uncivilized brutes like that, and anyone who throws in with that harlot deserves what they get, and no mistake. No one's forgotten what she did to Prince Riel, Aslan keep him." The company drank to this, and observed a brief moment of solemnity in memory of their murdered prince. "But the little one didn't choose anything, just went along with his parents, and isn't that what they're supposed to do? All this lamenting over children not listening to their parents, and this one's willful and that one's rude, and in my day this, and someone goes and blames a child for doing as he's told? Not only blames, but _beats?_ This war'll be the ruination of us, mark me — what's it matter if we take back our country only to find we've forgotten what it is to be Narnian?"

He had perhaps had more than his share of the beer, though to say truth he enjoyed lecturing even when he hadn't touched a drop, but there was something under all the usual disgruntlement. Hekaios felt that something stir in his own chest, and perhaps he'd had more than his share as well, for he blurted, "If the King were still on his throne, the lawkeepers would _deal_ with this!"

"Jadis has lawkeepers," Lydus said.

"Enforcers, you mean," Rhene snapped, nearly losing her grip on her human form in her agitation. For a split second the whole room held its breath, listening intently. Already they were learning to be paranoid and afraid to openly criticize Jadis. Perhaps Brond was right and there would be little of Narnia left when all was done.

"Whatever you call them," Hekaios said, "they'll be out looking for the ones who did it." Already there were rumors that Jadis's forces were looking for satyrs. He hadn't dared to go out much himself; Lydus had been running his errands, although whether the northerners Jadis had brought with her could even tell a satyr from a faun was doubtful.

"More likely they'll be looking for someone to blame," Brond retorted - but quietly. "And we all know where they'll look first: straight at us! As if any good Narnian'd have something to do with that sort of vile-"

"It's their nature," Rhene said, old resentment heavy in her voice. "_They_ wouldn't hesitate to behave wickedly, so of course they think everyone else would."

"I shouldn't wonder if it was one of their own kind as did it, neither," Brond declared. "They'd think it was fun, they would."

"And if we take the blame for it, all the better."

An idea burst upon Hekaios with all the suddenty of a phoenix's flaming. "Let's not take the blame," he blurted out, mouth getting ahead of his thoughts.

His gathered friends stared as though he'd run mad. "Lovely thought," Brond growled. "How d'you propose we do it? Her police won't care if they're ordered to arrest us, and it's not likely we'll get a fair trial from the likes of _her_."

"Not likely we'd get a trial at all," Lydus muttered. "Did you hear what happened to the Elephants down south?"

"What if," Hekaios said, raising his voice over the babble of outrage and rumors this sparked, "what if we didn't _wait_ for them to arrest us? We don't want monsters like that living here any more than the lawkeepers do - so let's _help_ them find the ones who really did it."

There was silence as the room digested this. Predictably, Brond broke it. "You think you'll just walk up to one of them and say - what? "Please, we didn't do it, don't hurt us'?"

A murmur of agreement met this, and Hekaios lost his temper. "They're still Narnians, aren't they?" he snapped, stamping a hoof with a sharp angry click on the stone-flagged floor. "We've lived together since Aslan sang. Why shouldn't we be able to work together long enough to find the brutes who would do such a thing to a _child_." He glared around. Silent and shamefaced, they waited for him to continue. "It's Her that wants us to be at odds. We don't have to be. Surely at least some of her lawkeepers are honest souls yet."

"Yours is a happy nature, " said Lydus, "but you have a point. I'll go with you, if you like."

"Well, _I_ say you're all fools," Rhene snapped, swirling to her feet. "Once a traitor, always a traitor, that's how it is! Let them pay blood to Narnia!"

"We must deal with what we have," Hekaios said patiently, even while his mind scrambled for words.

"I'll be no party to this folly," said Rhene, and whisked out the door in a blast of chill air, leaving profound silence behind her.

As before, Brond broke it. "Well," he said, "fools you may be, but as reason's got us naught, up the fools, say I." And he drained his bowl on it.

Two days later Hekaios was feeling very much the fool, shivering in the woods beside a friendly Maple, waiting for the witch's lawkeepers. Lydus, beside him, looked no happier, but at least he'd come. Of the others who'd heard this mad idea, only Elder Phaia had been willing to join them. Too many were of Rhene's mind, angry beyond reason.

"Aren't they late?" Lydus asked, peering up at the sun.

"Not yet," Elder Phaia replied. She stood with one hind leg slack and her eyes half-closed, radiating a calm Hekaios envied desperately.

"It's awfully high," Lydus persisted doubtfully, squinting.

"It is Youngleaf," the elder said. "You are still thinking in winter."

"It _is_ winter," Hekaios said irritably. He was cold.

"Only below. The heavens have not ceased their accustomed course." She opened her eyes enough to gaze at them both with maddening patience. "It is Youngleaf, and it is not yet a third from noon, and they are not late."

"That's good," said a new voice. "I'd hate to be rude."

Lydus and Hekaios both jumped, but Elder Phaia merely turned to the three lawkeepers, two ogres and a troll, emerging from tree-shadow. It was one of the ogres who'd spoken; her eyes sparkled with mischief and anticipation, at least until her commander turned to growl, "Quiet, Paukhep." His head swung back, fixing the three of them with a forbidding eye. "You asked for us," he said shortly. "Speak your piece."

Hekaios thought as it was his idea, he should properly speak, but his mouth had gone utterly dry. Fortunately the Elder anticipated him. "We represent a number of families in the area," she said, unruffled, "who wish to offer their sympathies to the fledge's family, and offer you any assistance we can in catching the ones responsible."

"You know who they are, then." Maybe it was just his flat tone that made everything sound like a statement, but Hekaios thought he truly believed that.

"We do not," Elder Phaia replied.

"Of course not. He's only a harpy, after all."

"He's a child," burst out Hekaios. The whole squad swung their attention to him, and he swallowed hard. He'd never been so close to ogres before. Focusing on the one who'd spoken first, because she seemed friendliest, he gathered his courage and continued, "It – it's _wrong_, whether he's a harpy or a faun or anything else. Narnians don't _do_ this to one another."

"Someone did," said the commander.

"I know." He swallowed again. "They need to be caught and punished. We – it doesn't matter if we agree about anything else." His confidence was growing with each word, and (wonder of wonders) they actually seemed to be listening. "We agree this was a terrible crime. Let's find the ones who committed it."

The commander scoffed, but Paukhep spoke up before he could. "Why come to us?"

Hekaios blinked. "You're lawkeepers," he said. "Who else should we go to?"

"Your own kind?" she prodded.

This struck him as dangerous territory. He'd already used up most of his store of courage with the oblique reference to the witch, and now found himself fumbling. Lydus stepped into the breach, Aslan bless him. "Centaur, Satyr, or Faun?" he asked. "Or Dryad, or Squirrel, or Dwarf? We're all horrified by it, and it's Narnian law that's been broken. It's for lawkeepers, not clans and councils."

"And what use are you to us," the commander said. "You will only point us astray."

"We don't want a madman loose around _our_ children, either," Hekaios began, knowing it sounded weak but hoping to show they had common interest all the same. Elder Phaia broke in more practically, "I think you will find folk more apt to answer your questions if you come in our company. Likewise, we will hear things that would never be whispered in your presence, and, if they have any bearing on the matter, will bring them to you."

"You'd spy on your own folk."

"We will cooperate with a lawful investigation," the elder corrected. "And you, being honorable agents of the law, would naturally never ask us to do more."

"_Do_ you know anything about the attacks?" Paukhep broke in. Hekaios began to think she was rather young, though he had no way to gauge an ogre's age.

"Nothing helpful," he admitted. "Not yet. But we do want to help." Looking across the short space between them, Hekaios admitted he rather liked Paukhep. Maybe this was what ogres were like in the first days, when Aslan's song was still fresh in the world? She certainly didn't act like ogres were supposed to; the commander was more that sort of ogre.

She said, "Sir, it's worth a try, isn't it? To catch this louse before he does more harm?"

The commander looked from her to the elder, then turned a considering gaze on Hekaios. "Very well," he said finally. "As a trial."

Paukhep grinned broadly, showing a mouth full of crooked, sharp teeth. Yet somehow, despite that, Hekaios found himself grinning back.

~.~

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the tyrant Miraz's rule_

Sigulf refuses to go near the place, and Rootminer thinks Talking Animals would be too much of a shock, so Grint has to march up to the imposing walls of the Beaversdam fortress alone. It isn't quite a castle; some king a few generations back had forbidden actual castles after a civil war the Narnians had watched with bated breath. Still, one would have to get into the technical details of what distinguished a castle from a fortified keep before the the difference is apparent. Grint doesn't much case, unless owning something castle-like is a sign the lord of Beaversdam is willing to flout the king's laws. Of far more concern to him are the rumors that have reached him about Beaversdam – both of them; two brothers, neither married yet, still sharing the place instead of quarreling over it as Telmarine brothers often do. The Animals of Lantern Waste say the brothers are cautious hunters, that they follow 'an old superstition' of warning the woods the day before a hunt – a Narnian custom, could they but know it. The fauns in the area swear they've never been hunted at all, for curiosity or cruel sport.

Standing alone before the high walls of the Beaversdam not-castle, Grint hopes that tolerance extends to dwarfs. "Halloo the gate!" he bellows, loudness to cover his nerves.

Men peer down at him from the top of the wall, and start laughing. "A giant voice from a little man," one says. "Did a giant step on you, Master Small?"

"Nay," says another, "'tis a bearded child, surely!"

Grint grits his teeth against the teasing and calls again, "I seek audience with your lord. Open the gates!"

"What," the first says, "do you think we open at every stranger's command? Not so, Master Small!"

"Oh, let him in," the second says. "If he causes trouble, the hall boy can knock him down. And perhaps the lord will take him on for a fool."

The first guard regards Grint dubiously. "He doesn't look like he's much humor in him," he says. Grint mentally credits him the more intelligent of the pair, but the gates do open. Holding his head high, he marches inside, resolutely not thinking about whether they'll let him leave again.

In the keep's courtyard, there's a small crowd of gawkers, mostly servants paused in their work to gape at him. He resists the urge to scowl at them, looking around instead for someone he can bully into taking him to one of the lords.

A stripling with the coltish grace of oncoming adolescence bounds up to him. "This way, uhm, sir," he says, fumbling only a little. "My lord's not hearing audience today, but he's not over-busy either. He'll probably want to see a… I mean, he'll be willing—"

Grint chuckles. The boy's innocent floundering is easier to take than the adults' staring. "He'll want to see a Dwarf, you mean. Up close, as it were. It's all right, lad. I suppose it's not every day people out of your cradle-stories turn up for tea."

"You drink tea?" the boy blurts, and the chuckle turns into a full fledged laugh, easy and free. At first shocked, the lad relaxes and then laughs with him, covering childish giggles with a hand clamped to his mouth. "Come inside, sir," he invites when he has hold of his mirth.

Grint follows him in, still grinning. "For the record," he says easily, "dwarfs – and fauns, centaurs, anything that looks human-ish about the head – eat pretty much the same things humans do. With allowances for personal taste, supply, so forth."

Glancing at him sidelong, his guide dares, "What about the ones that don't look human?"

"Depends on the teeth, mostly," Grint replies, willing to indulge a boy's harmless curiosity. Maybe he'll be less likely to hunt Narnians, having met one, even if this doesn't work. "You wouldn't expect someone with teeth like a bull to eat a lot of meat, or someone with teeth like a cat to have much greenery. That said, most Narnians'll try anything once. Even the Animals are more adventurous than their dumb cousins. I know a leopard with a terrible fondness for mushroom soup."

That sets the boy off into giggles again; apparently the idea of a leopard lapping at a soup bowl like an overgrown house cat is too much for him. In the middle of this hilarity, they arrive at a grand and imposing door. The boy bites his knuckle until he can stop laughing, though he turns alarmingly red in the process, and then raps briskly at the carved panels, pushing the door open without waiting for a reply.

"My lords, a Narnian envoy," he announces, and steps aside for Grint to enter.

One of the lords is on his feet, the other just rising from a seat, the remains of luncheon spread on the table between them. They're clearly brothers, though one is dark and one is light. A light Telmarine is unusual enough, and speaks to foreign blood in them somewhere – Archen, perhaps? That might explain the sympathy towards Narnians. They both stare at him openly, astonished, but unlike the crowd in the courtyard, they recover their manners quickly.

"Your pardon, master Dwarf – have I that correct? Good," the dark one says. "We have wondered if we might meet a Narnian someday, given the rumors about our woods, but we never expected to find one strolling in our door!"

"I counted on surprise to get me so far," he admits. "My name is Grint, gentlemen, and if you will hear me out, I have a proposal I believe will benefit us all."

"I am Baldemar, my brother, Ossian," the dark – probably elder – one says. "Sit you down, Master Grint, and tell us what brings a legend out of hiding. May we give you some refreshment?"

Grint accepts both the chair and the drink, managing the human-scaled furniture with only a little awkwardness. Not all fauns and other large Narnians keep enough guest-furniture to go around; he'd been managing overlarge chairs since he'd been old enough to go visiting. The lords try to pretend they weren't watching curiously, taking refuge in seating themselves and pouring tea; for a time conversation is lost in the cheerful click of cup and saucer. Then Ossian sits back with his cup and says, "I admit to a deep curiosity, Master Grint. What brings you out into the open? We've always heard Narnians prefer to hide from the sight of men."

"Between hiding and being slaughter, certainly, most of us prefer hiding," Grint says. Now it comes to it, he's sweating. He's never been gifted with words, but it's too late for regrets now. He'll just have to hope the lords of Beaversdam appreciate plain speaking. "This is our land too, though, and we'd prefer to walk it openly."

"Is that what brings you here?" Baldemar asks. "I can certainly offer you the freedom of my lands – provided you abide the law, of course, the same as any of my folk. He smiles, a shy childish grin. "I should very much like to meet more Narnians."

Grint struggles to form a polite refusal. "Your lordship is… kind," he says, almost choking on the word. Gracious permission to use their own land, indeed! He hadn't thought there was so much of Sigulf's anger in him. "But we've made such arrangements before. They aren't enough."

"Are there still so many of you left?" Ossian inquires, a hint of eagerness beneath the civility. "We have friends who might make similar arrangement."

"That's good," Grint says, "But the trouble is, these bargains tend to last only a few years. At worst the lord decides to expand a village or a field and starts chopping away at the forest with no regard for our homes. At best, his son or grandson decides he needn't keep bargains made 'mere creatures,' and then where are we?

"We're tired of these informal pledges, your lordships. What we want is a treaty, between your folk and ours, that will bind everyone to it."

Baldemar frowns. "Only the king could sign such a treaty," he says.

"I know. We had some hopes for the last one, but they came to naught. Now we're worse off than before, with this Lord Protector." He watches the faces of the lords, sees their frowns deepen at the mention of Miraz. "We'd rather see the boy-king on the throne… and I think you would also.


	3. Negotiations

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_

"Lord Miraz?" Prunaprismia's maid Raisa repeats the name, as skeptical as Prunaprismia herself had been when her father told her. "I thought his lordship disliked him."

"Father opposes some of his policies," Prunaprismia corrects, twitching her skirts away from a lump of something unidentifiable in the street. The slushy walk before them seems endless; she is beginning to regret not taking a carriage. But the point is to be seen, after all, and if she rides between houses she might as well just send the servants out to deliver the poor baskets rather than going herself. "I don't think he dislikes Miraz personally," she continues, drawing her cloak a little closer. "They do agree about a great many things. It's mostly this question of isolation they argue over. And Father thinks I may be able to temper the Lord Protector's decision on that score. If we were wed."

"Would he listen to you, do you think?"

Prunaprismia sighs. "I don't know," she says wistfully. "Perhaps. He couldn't listen any less than Master Ciconid, certainly." That was a disaster. She's never been so grateful to have a betrothal negotiation fail. "Father says he wishes to meet me before going forward," she confides. "I think it's a good sign. If he were only interested in my dowry and my womb he wouldn't care."

"Then I suppose the question is whether he wants a biddable wife or not."

_Biddable._ Prunaprismia represses a shudder. "If he does, he shall be disappointed," she says firmly. "I have no intention of hiding my opinions. There is too much good to be done."

"Starting now?" Raisa suggests, nodding toward one of the homes ahead.

"Quite." She takes one of the baskets from the laden servants following them, while Raisa scurries ahead to knock.

The door opens promptly - of course, they've been seen coming. Though not an especially tall woman, Prunaprismia still has to stoop going in. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim, slightly smoky interior. The family is lined up like soldiers for inspection, anxious looks on their faces and the two little girls pink-cheeked from a hasty scrubbing. She holds out the basket. "To bring you cheer in this season," which was what she always says when she brings around baskets for the poor, yet every year they respond as if she's said something novel.

"Thankee, milady," the man says, accepting it from her with an awkward bobbing bow, while his wife curtsies so deeply her knees creak. She nudges her children, hissing softly, and thus prompted they both dip curtsies of their own.

Prunaprismia smiles at them, holding her hand out to Raisa. The maid lays a small pouch in her palm, full of little sweets. She shakes out two honey drops, distributing one to each child, and is rewarded with beaming smiles from both. It makes them look considerably younger, banishing the pinched look their features are already learning to settle into. Such a little thing - and no reason they shouldn't have a treat more often, except that coin is so precious. A family like this probably handles only a few small coins in a year, making or bartering for most of what they need instead. And yet there are things they need which only coin will gain - like brick or dressed stone to rebuild the smoky, ill-drawing chimney.

She wishes them joy of the season and takes her leave before it can become uncomfortable for them, having the lady of the manor in their tiny home. There are a dozen other stops to make before they're done, although the baskets go only to the most desperately poor. Prunaprismia sighs. Raisa, who knows her well, pats her arm. "You do all you can, my lady."

"Not enough," Prunaprismia answers. They have this conversation nearly every time they distribute alms. "If we could bring more money into the manor..."

"There's only so much to go around," Raisa says.

"Archenland has money," Prunaprismia replies. "Ymar has money. Calormen is swimming in it. Let them send some to us. Foreign gold is still gold."

"Yes, my lady," says Raisa.

Prunaprismia laughs. "I know. I kick an open door."

"Yes, my lady," the maid says in a very different tone.

"If I married Lord Miraz..." If she marries him, and he listens to her, she could show him how people struggled. She doubts he sees it himself; charity is women's calling. He has probably never seen the inside of his tenants' homes, never looked seriously at a village that wasn't on fire from an attack. Would they fight so much amongst themselves if there was more money to go around? "I think, if he is tolerable at all, I will consent," Prunaprismia says. Speaking it aloud gives it a frightening weight. She tries not to shiver.

Raisa hands over the next basket, pressing her hand comfortingly. "It will all be well, my lady."

"Of course it will," she answers, shaking off her reverie and holding her head high. "Now, is it this hut or the next?"

* * *

_Youngleaf, 903: Second Year of the Reign of Queen Jadis_

It was good to have an investigation. The mess was deathly silent and oppressive; the entire castle alternating between grim and furious. Nikothea had been removed from duty, of course, and her partner as well, after he'd lost his temper with a possible witness they were questioning. There'd been some talk of standing down the entire squad, but the Commander had argued that keeping them busy was best. Not that the three of them weren't in a fine temper also; they just had it under tighter wraps. And realistically, they couldn't afford to stand down too many lawkeepers right now. It was not only Niko's closest friends who were in a temper; her entire clan was at the edge of violence, and the anger spilled into the other White Clans as well.

Paukhep and her squadmates had been set to the investigation mostly to keep them away from the restive gathers - a futile gesture if ever there was one, since one of the main points of congregation was outside Nikothea's home, and they all visited her regularly. But at least they weren't on duty when they threaded their way through grumbling knots of people to duck into their squadmate's home. Niko herself hadn't left her son's bedside except to sleep, and precious little of that by the look of her. Her mate was in a taking, equally worried for his mate and his son.

So the investigation was welcome; a clear task to focus on and clear procedures to follow. And it kept them among the Lakeside clans. Paukhep had never thought she would find it a relief to be among the Lion-bent Frankists, but she did not envy the squads send among the White clans to keep anger from breaking into riot. Not in the slightest. The thought of arresting one of their own - or raising a weapon to them, worse still - did not bear thinking about. Indeed, Paukhep was uncertain she would be _able_ to, when it came to it. The Frankists had gone too far this time, perhaps they _ought_ to be taught a sharp lesson.

But no, that wasn't fair. Not all of the Frankists were brutal knaves, as the surprising offer from those woodsmen and their augur friend proved. The anger in Hekaios's face and voice had not been feigned; she would stake her position on it. He was just as angry at the assault as they were, and just as eager to catch the blackguard.

She was a little less certain of his friends; Lydus was so quiet he was hard to know anything about, and the augur, Phaia, was just hard to understand, full stop. Hekaios said it came of being so wise, though Paukhep had never had any trouble understanding the clans' wisewomen. But then, there were very few augurs amongst the Colorless clans. Stormrun had a handful, but like all of the Black clans they lived in the Northern Uplands, well east of the Wyvernsrust Hills that were as far as Paukhep had ever traveled before the Queen had made her palace here. Perhaps being able to read the future just by star-gazing made one particularly hard to understand. If only they'd read this attach in the stars, or could find the culprit there!

"It doesn't work like that, I think," Hekaios said when she asked, but he'd taken her to Phaia anyway.

"The stars dance the reflection of the world," Phaia told her, "not our petty lives. They dance your queen and your clans' coming, for that has changed all, but they cannot answer our tiny questions."

"A child's life is tiny?" Paukhep demanded, marching up to Phaia with clenched fists. Hekaios tugged at her arm, trying to calm her, but the augur only blinked at her calmly.

"Few mortals ever rearrange the balance of the world enough to be seen by the stars."

Paukhep had to be content with that, although she was still unhappy with the easy way the augur dismissed people's lives. Instead she flung herself into investigating by purely mundane methods, examining the site of the attack and searching for witnesses.

Hekaios was as good as his word, going with her to speak with those who were reluctant to trust the queen's servants, and even finding two witnesses himself. One of those had seen the assault itself; most had only seen the child before or after. The eyewitness confirmed what Paukhep had begun to suspect: that the attacker was a woodsman. And if he wasn't also the one behind the vandalism, Paukhep would eat her boots.

Hearing that one of his own people was behind it sent Hekaios nearly incandescent with rage. "We'll find him," he promised Paukhep over and over, while they rattled from one tiny stead to another searching for news. "He won't be allowed to get away with this... monstrous atrocity."

Paukhep winced a little, but said something about his choice of words, though the Frankists called her people 'monsters' often enough to sting. Instead she said, "Just remember he needs to be _alive_ to get a trial."

"You don't mind a few broken bones, do you?" She didn't think he was entirely jesting. But then he grew strangely sober, glancing thoughtfully at her now and again.

"What is it?"

He didn't want to answer at first, but finally yielded to her pressing. "Some of us were wondering if there would be a trial. Jadis won't just execute him?"

"The queen," Paukhep answered, stressing the title, "believes in a fair law for _all_ Narnians."

Hekaios was silent long enough she thought the subject closed. "It's just-" he began abruptly. Stopped again. Turned to face her squarely. "Regicide's an ugly thing, Paukhep," he said quietly. "You're all right, and your squadmates from what I can see, but this queen of yours, she killed our prince in cold blood, with your clansmen hooting and cheering her on. How can we trust her, after that?"

Paukhep wasn't a scholar or a politician. What she knew was that the old kings of Narnia - the Frankist line - were cruel and cold, at least toward anyone they didn't favor. The Colorless clans, outcasts, feared, had to scrabble for a living, never welcome in the heartlands where the kings held sway, living on the borders and in the wilds to the north of Narnia. The queen promised to return them to their home, to make them equals, no longer second class citizens in their own land, and she had. Did it matter if the prince died for justice to be served? He had killed them, betrayed his charge and the trust of those he should have protected but instead shunned.

"It wasn't ... maybe I'm not the one you should talk to," she said, hesitant. "I could introduce you to some people? Or Ostgerg, even, he loves to talk about-" Paukhep waved a hand vaguely. "- philosophy... stuff."

"Stuff?" Hekaios teased. "Honestly, I'm no philosopher myself. But we all want to know where we stand, and what else this Jadis is going to do."

"Why not ask her majesty, then?" Hekaios gave her another of those sidelong looks, this one touched with amazement. "What?" she demanded, when the staring became uncomfortable.

"Ask her _how_?" he exclaimed. "Just march up to her and say, 'Pardon me, I'd like to know your plans for Narnia-'"

"Don't be ridiculous." Paukhep glared at him. Maybe the Frankists had a right to be anxious, but they didn't have to be nasty about it. "You request an audience, of course."

"And she'd be so eager to see us," Hekaios retorted. Paused, studied her face, and repeated with less sarcasm, "She'd be willing to see us?"

"I don't see why not," Paukhep said. "Her majesty is a great believer in equality."

"I'd have to talk to the others," Hekaios mused, "but... you - would you arrange it? If they agreed?"

"I can pass the message," she assured him. "I'm sure the queen will see you."

"I hope so," Hekaios replied. "It... it isn't right, what this fellow's been doing to you. But we've had our share of troubles too, since Jadis came. It can't go on."

"We'll catch the troublemakers," Paukhep said stoutly, "and then it will all be well. You'll see."

* * *

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_

Prunaprismia expects a formal public meeting with Miraz, but he surprises her. Although both of them have a fair-sized retinue present, no other nobles are there, except her father, naturally. They exchange very carefully formal greetings, and she thinks this will be a long meeting indeed. But then he bows, saying, "It is a mild day; will you walk outside with me?" and offers his arm. Even more surprising, he waves off his servants.

She lays her hand on the offered arm delicately, motioning her own retinue to remain. Lord Scythley follows them outside, but seems content to take a seat in the winter sunlight. It doesn't escape her notice that the entire garden is visible from that vantage; he isn't entirely willing to leave her with only Raisa for a chaperone. Miraz leads her onto the paths, with Raisa trailing behind them, far enough apart that they might imagine themselves alone.

They stroll the crushed-stone pathways, exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the beauty of the winter-cloaked garden - artfully arranged to show greenery and even some color here and there - and the types of flowers that slumber in each of the tidily covered beds. Prunaprismia racks her brain for some topic that might draw him out, because flowers tell her nothing about his mind. "I was sorry to miss the court festivities for Diadi Nata," she says, grabbing at the first pleasantry that does not involve plants.

"They were somewhat perfunctory, I fear," Miraz replies. "It is difficult, with no lady to act as hostess."

"And the court still in mourning, I suppose," Prunaprismia reflects. The death of royalty requires a long mourning period, and the queen had only passed a few months ago, from one of the deadly summer fevers that sometimes plagued them. "It must be terrible for you, my lord, to lose so much of your family so young."

"The queen's death was a tragedy," he says. "I wish I could say my brother's passing was unexpected, but his illnesses had been growing steadily worse for some time."

Illnesses, Prunaprismia knows, is a polite way of referring to the many problems which had troubled the self-indulgent king: gout, sweet-piss, a great excess of bile, and all the other things which followed from daily excesses of food and drink. Some whispered of other sicknesses as well, ones a gently reared lady should pretend to know nothing of, though she helped brew the simples that dosed sufferers in her own keep. Politely, Prunaprismia says, "Still, you have my greatest sympathies."

"Thank you." He pats her hand where it rests on his arm, and leaves his hand covering hers. "It was peaceful in the end - a great blessing. He simply... slept."

"Santaria keep him," she says piously. Miraz bows his head briefly on the words.

They take another turn around the fountain, drained for the winter but pretty with pristine snow in its basin.

"The real tragedy," Miraz says, "is my nephew. To lose his parents so young... terrible."

"He is fortunate to have an uncle."

"I do what I can." He does not play at modesty well, she reflects in some amusement. "While his mother lived, it worked well enough. But he is still in the nursery, not yet ready to heed a father's advice. He needs a mother."

Prunaprismia studies him, admiring the fact that he'd managed that speech without a twitch. His expression is a portrait of loving regret. Still... "I hope you are more subtle in Council, Lord Miraz. My father has always spoken of you as a worthy opponent."

For just a moment he look stunned. Then a smile breaks over his face. "I would hope not to disappoint Lord Scythley," he says. "You must pardon me; I have not conversed much with ladies."

He's holding himself so stiffly she can feel the tension through his arm. With a start, Prunaprismia realizes he's nervous. It is strangely charming. "I shall forgive your inexperience, then," she says, squeezing his arm a little. "And yes. If we can come to an understanding between us... I should be glad to be a mother to little Caspian."

He glances back at Raisa, who is studiously pretending not to hear a word they're saying. All the same, he lowers his voice, leaning close. "And... to children of our own?" When she, startled by the intensity of his question, doesn't immediately answer, he continues, speaking more and more rapidly. "It is very necessary, you must realize. It will be long before Caspian can sire heirs of his own, and the next heirs are-"

"Stop," she says, laying a finger to his lips. "My lord... Miraz. Stop. I am eager for children."

A smile grows beneath her silencing finger. Catching her hand, he kisses it, his eyes burning into hers. Despite the weather, she suddenly feels too warm. He releases her hand, and she looks away, adjusting her cloak needlessly.

"You might consider befriending the Gallarids," Prunaprismia says without thinking, just to fill the air between them. "It will be long before anyone's heir is strong enough to be safe." Then she hears her own words, and swallows a gasp. She glances at him, trying to judge how he's taken this foray into politics and advice. She hadn't meant to go so far, so soon. "I-I mean..." she stammers, trailing for because there is no way to finish the thought. She will not retract her opinions, but what if he should want, as Raisa suggested, a biddable wife?

Oddly enough, he seems more relaxed. "Do you think so? I wonder if they would even hear me out."

Emboldened, Prunaprismia replies, "Lord Vargilian just wants his pride soothed. He sees you in company with new men, soldiers, and he worries. Blood is very important to him."

Miraz scratches his beard, thoughtful. "I thought Lord Scythley opposed Vargilian."

"Vehemently," she agrees. "How do you think I know so much about him?"

He chuckles, tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm. "Tell me more."


	4. Receptions

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the tyrant Miraz's rule_

"Erimon, Argoz, I'm glad you came," Baldemar greets them. "But where's Restimar?"

"Talking to his family," Argoz says. "We have some news for you, Baldemar."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," he says. "But can it hold a short while? There's someo- I have guests I'd like you to meet."

"Heaven's light, man, you're shaking!" Erimon declares, gripping his forearm tightly. He lowers his voice. "Miraz's men?"

"No!" Startled, he almost shouts. With an effort, he calms himself, clears his throat self-consciously. "No, nothing like that. I'm sorry. I'm concerned about what you'll think of them - they're... not what you'd expect."

"Well, who is it, man?"

Baldemar shakes his head. "Better you see for yourselves, or you'll think I've run mad. This way." He guides them to the back parlor, usually only used for the family but a good way to keep his unusual guests out of sight. At the door he hesitates again, glancing at his companions. Erimon gives him a reassuring nod; Argoz just looks confused. Baldemar takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

His guests are wisely mostly out of sight. All the lords see at first is a large grey canine sitting alertly on the hearthrug. "New dog, Beaversdam?" asks Erimon, who loves the creatures, already gliding toward it with his hand out. "Interesting breed - part wolfhound?"

"Just Wolf, if you please," says the canine. The two lords freeze. Baldemar hastily shuts the door. Two other Narnians step out of the shadows at the side of the room, where they'd been out of sight from the doorway. These are somewhat less shocking; the dwarf looks a little strange, but not so much as to be disturbing, and the dryad might as well be human; he sees Argoz bow slightly as he would to any Telmarine lady.

"Gentlemen, may I present the dwarf Grint, the Wolf Sigulf, and the dryad Orithyia? Friends, the lords Argoz and Erimon."

"A pleasure," says the dryad, perhaps sensing she's the least threatening of them. "My lords, I've seen those looks before. Allow me to reassure you: you're not mad, nor are you about to be torn to pieces. There _are_ true Narnians left, and we are not all the bloodthirsty monsters of your cradle-songs."

"The Narnians are here to discuss a formal treaty," Baldemar jumps in, steering the shocked lords toward chairs. "We've been - my brother and I, that is - discussing things with them for some time."

"Why?" Erimon demands. "Why now, why you -" He shakes his head, at loss. "Why introduce us?"

"The answers to all of those questions are linked," says Sigulf. "In short: Miraz."

"He is as much a trouble to us as he is to you," Grint says. "The last Caspian left us alone more often than not, as long as we kept to the woods. Miraz sends soldiers to wipe us out whenever a rumor of us reaches him, and he encourages you people to venture into the forests so we can't avoid meeting you."

"The final straw," says Orithyia, "was the burning of the Swallowsward woods. It was not an accident." The dwarf and wolf both look very grave at this. Baldemar is still fumbling with the strangeness of Narnian customs, but he has a notion that trees are meaningful to the dryad, so he fixes a solemn expression on and hopes the others will follow his lead.

Neither of them laugh, at least. "So you want - what?" Argoz asks. "Miraz gone?"

"Miraz gone," Grint agrees, "and land marked as ours, where no Telmarine will trespass."

The lords look skeptical. "We would like," Orithyia adds softly, "to stop killing trespassers to protect ourselves." Coming from a lady so graceful and delicate, the bald statement is all the more shocking. Baldemar watches his fellows pale and swallow.

"You said you weren't bloodthirsty monsters,' Erimon remarks. His voice is quiet but his hand is on his sword.

"No more than you," Sigulf replies. "You kill men who wish to take your land, do you not?"

"That's war—"

"We have been at war for seven hundred years! We remember, if you do not." Grint leans forward, earnest, intent. "We want a truce," he says. "We've made them before, here and there, with lords, but you Telmarines, you can't leave well enough alone. Someone always broke them." He looks so grim and serious it ought to be comical — Kings of Telmar have had dwarfs as fools for just that reason (and now Baldemar wonders if they were truly just short humans as he'd always believed). "We want a treaty with your king, in writing, so it will be binding on all of you."

"The king is four," Argoz points out.

"Too young to have learned hate," Sigulf agrees softly. "His sire wasn't a cruel man; his dam was said to be kind. His chances are decent, if Miraz doesn't corrupt him."

The lords have no answer for this. Erimon sits back in his chair; Baldemar can almost see the wheels of his mind spinning. Argoz looks from one Narnian to another, seems about to speak, then changes his mind. Baldemar sympathizes; he felt just as stunned when they first came to him.

"Why come to us now?" Erimon asks, visibly gathering himself. "You must realize Prince Caspian will be in his uncle's care for many years yet."

The Wolf smiles, revealing vicious teeth. Somehow the look is not alarming; he looks not unlike an ordinary hound presented with a thick, meaty bone. "The question is, which uncle?" They all focus on Erimon, who hardly shifts under the scrutiny, nonplussed at being the center of Narnian plans. "If Miraz were no longer a factor, the prince's care would go to his mother's kin, would it not?"

Argoz breaks in, his voice tight and strained, "And how were you proposing to remove Miraz from the guardianship?"

The Wolf grins again, a slightly more feral edge to it. "Permanently."

Argoz recoils. His face shows all his horror, his eyes wide and staring. "Treason!" Baldemar holds himself deliberately still, trying not to clutch the arms of his chair. Erimon might be carved from stone for all he reacts.

"We took no oaths to Miraz," the dryad says, "nor he to us. He is an invader in our lands and an enemy of our people. You wish to speak of _treason_? How many of how children has he murdered?"

"This — Erimon, you cannot—" Argoz hardly knows what objection to make.

"He is not king," Erimon says calmly, his eyes on the Narnians and not his companion's distress, "though he would like to think he is. So long as you mean no harm to Caspian…"

"We do not make war on children." Baldemar doesn't think he's imagining the faint, scornful stress on 'we.'

Erimon hears it too. He inclines his head gravely to the dryad. "He _is_ of royal blood. Unfortunately," he adds. "It would be best if we could remove him lawfully — better for you, also, if you truly wish peace between us." The Narnians all acknowledge the sense of this, and he continues, "But you might aid us in that, if you were willing."

"How?" Grint asks. Baldemar leans forward to heat what Erimon's quick mind has conceived.

"If we could present you to the Council at an opportune moment," Erimon begins slowly, "and have you declare your support for Caspian but _not_ for Miraz…" He pauses, face thoughtful. After a moment, he nods to himself. "Yes. I think it might suffice to sway a few of the lords. Many of them fear you more than they would be willing to admit."

"And fearing us, they will listen to our preference?" Orithyia might be pardoned the considerable skepticism with which that question was laden.

"Fearing you," Baldemar put in, "they will be eager for peace." It was the heart of his other plan, vague though it had been, to introduce the Narnians' notion of a treaty.

The Narnians consult in silent glances. Most of these are dubious, and Baldemar winces inwardly, preparing another argument. At last, though, Grint says, "We'll try it your way, then. But I hope you're right about the other lords. Tyrants like Miraz are very good at making a fair showing, when it suits them. We Narnians should know."

~.~

_Youngleaf, 903: Second year of the Long Winter_

Hekaios could scarcely credit it when Paukhep returned with an agreement from Jadis. They had all thought the audience would be refused outright; the northern queen had shown little interest in talking to loyal Narnians. But now Paukhep reported that they were promised an audience, so long as they came unarmed.

That last part caused some trouble.

"It's a trap," Rhene said for the fifth time. "You'll go in, but you won't come out! Remember what happened to Perrin!"

"Did we not, Rhene, we surely would now, as you have so thoughtfully told us twice," Phaia said wearily. "Have you anything new to add?"

"Anyone who goes in there is a fool," she said, which wasn't new either.

"That's what you said about working with her lawkeepers," Lydus pointed out. "That's turned out well."

"For now," Rhene said darkly.

Hekaios repressed an urge to tell her to leave the predictions to centaurs. Baiting her wouldn't help. The outcasts had destroyed most of her grove sisters when they'd first come to Narnia, in the months of chaos and war that had ended with Prince Riel's death. Her grief was too deep for reason.

"Perhaps there are some of us willing to be twice a fool, then?" Elder Phaia suggested. She was looking directly at Hekaios as she spoke.

Well, it had been his idea. "I'll go," he said, and glanced at Lydus, who hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Walking into the northern queen's castle was a fair sight different from meeting a handful of outcast-clan lawkeepers in open woods. But they'd begun this thing; it was only fair to see it through. "I'm not much with words," Hekaios told Phaia.

"I shall accompany you," the Elder promised. "And perhaps some others may yet be persuaded."

As it happened, she managed to drag two other centaurs along, which relieved Hekaios immensely. If he was lucky, he could stand in the back and say nothing at all. Certainly Cineas, eldest of the centaurs, was pleased to do most of the talking. He told them so himself, repeatedly.

"The thing to remember is that we come as guests," Cineas reminded them as they walked cautiously toward the castle. "Whatever we think of her, we must be polite." As he'd already said this four times, no one bothered replying.

Hekaios was distracted by the sight of the castle. He hadn't seen it in some time because he, like anyone with sense, avoided the east shore of the Sweetmere. Many were beginning to avoid the lake entirely. Now, as he approached the causeway leading out to the small island and its palace, Hekaios thought the place looked bigger. It was more than just seeing it up close. What had begun its life as a tiny watchtower and been expanded into a pleasure lodge for the royal family (after the borders had been pushed far enough west and north to render its old function moot) was now taking on the look of a real castle. He was certain the towers had been shorter, the walls narrower, only a year ago. And the whole building shone in the sunlight, as though the white stones had been polished to a gleam.

When they passed through the gate, he saw it wasn't the stones that sparkled, but a thin layer of clear crystal sheathing them. He shivered, edging closer to his companions. Construction he could understand. This was magic. And not the subtle magic of earth and water, nor even the practical, useful charms of cantrips practiced day-to-day, but real sorcery as was never seen in Narnia. _Witch of the North_, the whispered name for Jadis ran through his head. What did they know about her, really? And what were they walking into?

But no one leapt to arrest them when they entered the castle, and no monsters — well, no unexpected ones — lurked in the corridors. They were led to a cavernous hall with a throne raised on a dais at the far end. Jadis was there, pale enough to match her white gown, alarmingly regal with a silver crown on her head. Hekaios tore his eyes away, glancing around the room. Aside from the throne, it was utterly bare, but enough beings were present to keep the emptiness away. Two trolls flanked Jadis's throne, both armed with halberd Hekaios doubted he could even lift. No one else was as ostentatiously armed, but clearly the 'no weapons' rule didn't apply to her own people. Then in a space between two columns, he caught sight of a familiar face. Paukhep grinned at him quickly before resuming a proper sobriety, but Hekaios felt inexplicably relieved.

They came to the foot of the dais. There was an awkward pause, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. Then Cineas bowed, just slightly, thought to be fair centaurs didn't bend well. The rest of the party followed suit, though Hekaios had to git his teeth to do it, and kept his bow as shallow as possible. But it seemed even a token obeisance was enough for the woman who called herself queen of Narnia.

"Be welcome in our court," she said. "We are pleased to receive you."

"Your Majesty is gracious," Cineas replied. Hekaios admired his smoothness; not a hint of hesitation before the title. "We would present certain concerns."

"We shall be glad to hear them."

Hekaios saw Cineas draw a deep breath, and more tellingly, the tip of his tail twitch. They had debated the points to be raised endlessly before setting out, but reached only the roughest of conclusions. There hadn't been enough time left to discuss how to present their grievances, so Cineas would be improvising. Well, he'd insisted on being spokesman; Hekaios didn't have much sympathy for him.

"Many have come hither to make their homes," Cineas began carefully. "We have always welcomed new neighbors, but many of these claim places with no consideration for prior claims or tradition. Then quarrels arise, and spill into fights."

"I have not heard a request," Jadis said lightly, almost teasingly. "Shall I provide a way to arbitrate such disputes?"

"That would help," Cineas admitted. "Better would be to have newcomers petition the councils, as is generally done."

"And will the councils deal fairly with them?" she countered. "We all know heartlanders' opinion of the Colorless clans."

Cineas hesitated. Hekaios understood; he could not in truth promise the councils would deal fairly with the outcasts. There were many who wanted nothing to do with such creatures, or who tolerated them only so long as they kept to their own enclaves. "I can only speak for the Lakeside clans," Cineas said at length. "We will commit to deal fairly with all who would settle here."

"How generous of you," Jadis said dryly. "Have you other complaints?"

He paused again, perhaps warned by her tone, but plunged on, "Much property has been damaged—"

"Speak to the families burned out of their homes about _damage_," the queen blazed. Hekaios took a half-step back before he could stop himself. He glanced at Paukhep; her face was grim.

"That is… one fanatic," Cineas persisted weakly. "We do not condone—" Phaia touched his shoulder; he broke off.

"Let us speak of other matters," Phaia said, edging him aside, "and leave vandals of all kinds to the attentions of the lawkeepers." She inclined her head toward Commander Greck. Hekaios had not noticed him in the crowd until then. He responded with a bow. Very polite; very civil. You could almost think you were at a proper Narnian court.

Phaia continued, "There have been a number of new taxes levied this year. The burden has never been so great, and this despite the early frost last autumn, and the lingering of the winter."

"Am I to be blamed for the weather now?" Jadis asked.

"The snows may be beyond your control, but the tax collectors surely are not," Phaia replied smoothly. "They are... insistent, even to demanding what a family clearly does not have."

"All of my people are eager to prove themselves," the queen said. "It perhaps makes them overzealous." Hekaios supposed that was as close to an apology as they would get. He noticed it did _not_ contain a promise to amend the situation, but before he could pluck up the courage to speak (or at least whisper to Phaia), Jadis continued, "But there is something else, I think, that you have not spoken of yet. And I think we will make little progress until is is dealt with: so speak."

Hekaios felt a chill go through him. That she should _encourage_ them to lay the charge of regicide at her feet... They had all assumed she would wish to hide the deed, perhaps in time to rewrite history so that is was not her hand which struck. Did she claim the deaths openly? Proudly, even? He glanced at Lydus, saw the faun's brow furrowed with the same confusion he felt.

"That is... beyond us," Phaia got out. "A matter for all of Narnia, not one town."

"Then by all means, speak to others," Jadis said. "I would have there be no misunderstandings between us. " Phaia bowed. Said nothing. What was there _to_ say? Jadis continued, slipping easily back into the most formal cadences, "We shall receive whatever envoys wish to discuss matters peaceably. We shall even" - she smiled disarmingly - "permit them to keep their weapons, if it comforts them. Let all be welcome here."

"We shall pass your words to others," Phaia replied politely. Jadis inclined her head, and it was obvious the audience was over.

They were ushered out of the palace, out into the lingering winter. Despite the snows still clinging on the ground, Hekaios thought it was warmer outside than in. Something about Jadis put ice down the spine. He was just as pleased to be shed of her, and swore to himself he would never enter that castle again. He still couldn't quite believe they'd gotten out alive. Twice would be pressing the Lion's grace.

"That went well," Lydus said.

Cineas glanced at him. "Did it?"

"She heard us out..."

"And promised nothing."

That was true, Hekaios realized. Encouraging though she'd sounded, nothing concrete had been settled. And that last point...

"We came out the same way we went in," Lydus said. "That's more than I was expecting right there. She's not the unreasonable monster some would have us believe."

"There is a great deal to discuss," Phaia said, "and not by us alone."

~.~

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the tyrant Miraz's rule_

"I'm not sure what fairy-tales are supposed to tell us," Argoz says. "The Great Winter is just a story."

All three Narnians bristle at that. "It was very real," the Wolf sys, and when Argoz only looks more stubborn, the dryad adds, "Aren't you _talking_ to fairy tales right now? You Telmarines can never decide whether we're a threat or a fantasy." Argoz has the grace to blush at this, at least.

Baldemar says, "Real or not, the Witch Queen isn't the issue now."

"Is she not?" Grint asks. "One tyrant is very like another, gentlemen. You might be wise to study her doings."

The Telmarines exchange speaking glances. There are only a few stories of the Great Winter in Telmarine lore, and none of them make the White Queen more of a villain than any other fairy tales: meeting small children, leading them astray, and being defeated by clever tricks. 'Tyrant' is not quite the word.

"I have heard some of Archenland's ballads about the Winter," Erimon says at length, with careful courtesy. "It was surely a terrible time. But I doubt Miraz capable of controlling the weather."

The dryad shakes her head. "The Witch needed the Winter to control Narnia," she says, "but it was not the snow which made her a tyrant. She, too, made a fair showing at first, but only to put off suspicion while she destroyed those who could oppose her."

"We remain suspicious, I assure you," Argoz says.

Grint scowls. "You are not the ones he wants to lull. Have a care, gentlemen; he'll kill you at the first opportunity."

Argoz and Erimon look ready to argue. Baldemar hurries to say, "We shall bear it in mind, friends, I promise." He has visions of some dire offense being taken on one side or another, collapsing the tenuous alliance before it begins. "You will be ready, when the time comes?"

"Of course." They rise when he does, nodding politely to the other lords. Baldemar sees them into hands of the servants before returning to his human guests.

"For savages, their manners are good," Erimon says dryly. Baldemar turns to him sharply, a retort on his lips, but the lord holds up a hand. "I know, Baldemar, they're only beasts in form. My family has the stories too."

Argoz frowns at them both. "We had stories of Narnia too. I still wouldn't try to make friends of them. What were you thinking, Baldemar?"

He squared his shoulders, displeased to defend an alliance whose merits seem so obvious. "They came to me," he says, "which was brave of them. And they can be a good help to us, for small enough return."

"Hm, yes," Erimon says. "We must give thought to what land might be set aside for them. Some of the west woods, perhaps. There's not much sense in trying to clear them; the Narnians may as well have them."

A chill spreads through Baldemar's chest. He'd thought Erimon sympathetic to the Narnians; the Vangids, like his own family, are rumored to have old blood in them. Certainly they have Archen blood; Erimon's grandmother had been an Archen lady of no little rank. And Archenland is as near Narnian as one can get. They may not have Talking Animals and fantastical creatures there, but they are Lion-worshipers who honestly seem to believe that such creatures were real, in days of greater magic.

He can hardly say anything, and Erimon is already moving on, "This audience with Miraz — not a bad idea, Beaversdam. I doubt he'll be reasonable, but that's all to the good."

Baldemar drags himself out of his thoughts, running Erimon's words though his mind again. They make no more sense on repetition. "Pardon me?"

"If we present him with reasonable concerns and he refuses them, he shows himself the tyrant." Erimon smiles coldly. "If he continues as he has, soon no one will be able to deny it. The Council will have to strip him of his powers."

"Are you not over-hasty?" Baldemar asks, glancing at Argoz to see if he also is disturbed by the eagerness in Erimon's look. "He turns his position for his own gain, certainly…"

"He will lead us into ruination," Argoz says, with the kind of quiet certitude harder to argue with than any vehemence.

"But that is policy." Baldemar looks from one to the other, frowning. "I do not deny the Council must amend it, for it _will_ be the ruination of Telmar, but I doubt they can be brought to remove him entirely. Would it not be better to bring them to it in stages?"

"Your Narnian friends are right about one thing," Erimon sys. "A tyrant only grows worse with time. If we wait until his desires are obvious to all, he will be impossible to remove."

That bleak thought freezes them all. "He could not defy the Council?" Argoz whispers.

"He will not have to," Erimon says. "They will do his bidding by then."

"No." Baldemar shakes his head. "No, there are too many of us who would stand against him. He could never —" A sharp, urgent knock at the door makes him swallow the rest of that thought; he calls invitation but the page has scarcely waited for it. The boy presses a much-handled scrap of paper into his hand. Automatically he unfolds it, peripherally aware that Erimon and Argoz have risen and drawn in closer, as if to read over his shoulder.

The message is short and bleak. Swallowing thickly past the lump in his throat, he reads it aloud: "Lord Armas has fallen in battle." A good friend, a good man. Baldemar thinks mournfully of his young wife, now a widow, and their new son, scarce a year old. At least he had brothers; his family will not be cast entirely on the mercy of the world.

"So it begins," Erimon says heavily, dropping back into his seat like one too weary to stand.

Baldemar tears his gaze from the paper, appalled. "You cannot think this was Miraz's doing!" As much as he regrets the death, the Passarids are and have ever been a martial clan, Narnia's first defense against the foul creatures of the north.

"Is it not?" Erimon lifts a blazing gaze to him. "Who sent him there? And who do you think will be sent to replace him? Mark me, Baldemar, the Passarids will bear this latest invasion alone. They should have aid from the Crown, but Miraz will never send his forces while an easy way to destroy his enemies presents itself."


End file.
